The Thanksgiving Runt Buns

My wife cried out in desperation, “Why are they not rising?!?”

“Why are what not rising?” I asked as I looked at the obviously deformed buns in the bun pan. I was trying to quell my wife’s consternation over the “Now what are we gonna do about the bread for the Thanksgiving meal” problem.

Bread is an important part of most of our meals. Not having bread is like…well it’s like not having snow at Christmas or not having Hank Williams, Jr. sing “Are You Ready For Some Football?” on Monday nights.

We were heading to my daughter’s for Thanksgiving and my wife’s assignment was to bring a couple pies and THE BREAD.

So the other day she hollered down to me, “Will fifteen buns be enough?”

“Yep,” said I, “Ten for me, three for you, and two for Amber oughta do it.”

So she plopped 15 little frozen premade bun dough hockey pucks into the bun pan and put it into the fridge so that they could thaw and rise in unison.

But alas, when she pulled them out of the fridge, the nine toward the fridge door were bigger than the six toward the back of the fridge. After some scientific investigation, we could only surmise that it was like 20 degrees colder at the back end of the 18” pan than it was at the front. Maybe global warming was creeping into the fridge.

So she put them on the stove to see if that would snap the runt buns out of the doldrums.

But regrettably, when we got home from work, they were still smaller!

The nine toward the front of normal size (heretofore known simply as “The Nine”) were noticeably bigger than the abnormal six (heretofore known simply as “The Six”). We were both peering into the pan like bug scientists gazing at a new species.

I asked her if this had ever happened before. With a furrowed brow and a look of “Thanksgiving is ruint!” she said simply, “THIS has NEVER happened before!”

I asked her if she could just mix the runtbuns in with the normalbuns and perhaps that would inspire them to say, “Hey, I can rise to higher heights, look at that guy!”

But she wasn’t listening. And for the life of me I honestly couldn’t see the problem. Like Big Hairy Deal if the smaller buns are somewhat smaller than the others. It’s not like we are baking bread for Sean Connery or Tom Cruise or something. I would still eat them. Consider the six runts as part of my allotted ten. Good gravey! And besides, we’ll save on butter.

She grabbed another baking pan and dropped in some frozen premade dough nuggets. (I sorta remember an episode of "Little House on the Prairie" where Pa worked hard all day in the field harvesting dough balls and then gave them to Ma where she in turn froze them so that they could have bread in the winter.)

I didn’t ask, but I just assumed that my wife was going to somehow get 15 buns of proportional size so that her daughter wouldn’t think she was a total failure.

I thought about just getting up real early Thanksgiving Day and replacing the six dough balls in the new pan with six miniature marshmallows.

On the other hand, I wanted to be able to see the football game out of both eyes.

Hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving :>)
Dan Vander Ark
Copyright 2011
All Rights Reserved

A Ninny In An Audi, A Big Tall Flappy Monster, And Other Totally Unrelated Random Thoughts

A few months ago my wife went to check the mail. As she rummaged through the bills she suddenly started laughing uncontrollably. I mean “milk-coming-out-your-nose” type of laughter. She hollered down the stairs to me, “Honey, you’re officially old!” At first I couldn’t understand what she was saying because she was laughing so hard. “You got a letter from “The Scooter Store!” Well that’s just swell…now I don’t have to call in sick anymore, I can just call in “old.”

On our way home from work each day we pass through some pretty busy intersections. At the corner of Michigan Street and 27th Avenue, a guy in an Audi cut right in front of me. I couldn’t believe it! What Audiacity! Kay fired a verbal barb out the windshield, “What a Ninny!” Then I fired my verbal laser beam, “Yeah, he’s a Ninny in an Audi!” We both laughed.

Often on our way to work we see the guy in the Duluth Police Parking Enforcement Vehicle. Its sort of a modified three-wheeler with an enclosure so the Enforcer won’t get cold or rained on. And it says “Interceptor” on the bumper (I am not making that up). I wonder if he’s ever been on any high speed chases? Maybe when a toddler is trying to escape on his Big Wheels.

A while back when I went to fill up our car with almost $4.00 per gallon gas, about a cup full spilled onto the ground when I put the nozzle in. I almost threw my sweatshirt on the ground to try to soak it up so I could squeeze it into the tank. When the travel center attendant gave me my credit card receipt, I thanked him for my copy of the loan. He didn’t laugh.

And when did they stop calling them gas stations and start calling them travel plazas?

When I was watching the Daytona 500 this past February I noticed the peculiar way those guys were drafting off from each other. The announcers marveled at the way the drivers could pair up at speeds of up to 200 mph – front bumper actually touching the rear bumper – and push/pull each other around the track. I thought to myself, “Hey that’s not so special – that looks like my daughter Amber driving down Highway 2!”

When we went to the Big Box Department store, as we were checking out they asked me to input my zip code. I keyed in 90210.

My grandson and I went to Best Buy a while back to look at really cool stuff (we could spend all day in there). When I got out of my truck I pointed out to him a pretty impressive looking Ford F150. His dad is a Ford guy, so I figured he was gonna be a Ford guy. So I asked him, “I suppose when you get old enough to drive you’re gonna be a Ford guy, huh?”
His reply? Noah, age 9, replied with a grin, “I’m gonna be a What-I-can-afFord” guy.

You know those really tall, skinny inflatable things that you see in front of car dealers and other businesses? They flap up and down like a rag doll attempting to find a backbone as they try to stay inflated. I wonder how much business they really bring in? Or how many kids have nightmares from those things and are permanently scarred for life. “No no no Daddy!!! I don’t want to go to that place with the tall creepy flappy monster!”

When our daughters stayed at my mom and dad’s place, we always had to take the two dolls (with faces made from dried apples) off the dresser and put them in the closet so that they could sleep at night. I guess the heads did look pretty creepy – blackened dried apples molded into the shape of faces. They looked like some Amazon shrunken heads.

I wonder what’s more damaging for kids….creepy dried apple face people or creepy tall flappy monsters?

Kay has a lot of her cosmetics in a very colorful plastic box that looks an awful lot like a tackle box. I am not sure why I typed that, I guess I just thought you should know. One of these days I’m gonna a put a Rapala in it. Or a Power Worm.

I want to drive around town sometime dressed in a gorilla suit with the window down. And when someone pulls up along side of me at the stop light, I’ll just look over and give them a “Yo, whazzup?” That would be funny.

I got a John Deere letter the other day from my tractor. Seems its leaving me for a bigger farm.

A few months ago I bought a magazine at Barnes and Noble. The lady at the checkout asked if I wanted a bag. I was only halfway paying attention to her question because I was trying to figure out if I had enough cash of if I should use my credit card or if I should ask my wife to pay for it. I was looking at my billfold and said to her, “Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.” When I looked up she was sort of grinning and giving me a “this isn’t that hard of question” look. When we got in the car, Kay said I should have asked her to repeat the question.

At my wife’s place of employment someone brought in several bouquets of lilacs to sit around the office area. They looked beautiful (she brought one home) and smelled wonderful. But they were aggravating someone’s allergies so they had to put all the lilacs in the men’s room (don’t ask me why the men’s room). A couple days later as we headed to work I commented to my wife on how great her perfume smelled.
“It’s lilacs!” she replied.
I asked with great concern in my voice, “They’re not going to make you sit in the men’s room all day are they?”

Dan Vander Ark
Copyright 2011
All Rights Reserved

Death By Frisbee

Our daughter Courtney volunteered to host a Wednesday night “Grill and Chill” for our church at the Burnett ball field, so after work we hustled home, changed and headed out. We got to the picnic, visited for a little bit and then ate. I was hungry so I had two plates full of fried chicken, potato salad and other really good stuff.


Then Pastor Mike asked if anyone wanted to play Ultimate Frisbee. I loved tossing the Frisbee and had heard about Frisbee Golf, but had never heard about the “Ultimate” part.

A few years ago at work three of us tossed the Frisbee around during break. And when the weather was bad we went into the warehouse -- we got halfway good at tossing it around this pole or through that shelf. We even tried hitting the back wall of the warehouse from the mezzanine. Mine always fell short of that mark, but it was a lot of fun.

So at the Burnett ball field, all the guys gathered in the outfield to pick teams. There were I guess 14-16 of us ranging from the young (my grandson) to the not so young (me and a couple other guys). The captains started choosing sides and when it was down to about 6 of us and I hadn’t been drafted yet, I began to have flashbacks of the drafts at grade school kickball when I wasn’t taken till about the 49th round. Fortunately they just split us up so we wouldn’t have any self-esteem issues: “Ok, you three leftovers go to this side and you three go to that side.”

So the sides were chosen. The problem was though that in the melee you couldn’t really remember who was on your side. It’s just a good thing they didn’t call for skins and shirts. Me and six pack abs……………NOT!

But just to be helpful (and as a kind gesture), in the midst of the scramble when the guys on the other team hollered, “Who’s on my side?” I raised my hand. Just to be helpful.

Ultimate Frisbee is fashioned after soccer – you have to pass the Frisbee to someone on your side and are only permitted to take three steps once you catch it, then you have to attempt to pass it to another teammate as you work your way toward the football-like end zone (not a goal as in soccer). If the guy on your team doesn’t catch it or you throw just your normal horrible pass or the enemy knocks it down or intercepts it – then the other team gets the plastic saucer and back you go the other way.

(The day after Death-By-Frisbee I Googled “Ultimate Frisbee” on the internet just to see what I could find out about the sport. I soon learned that Ultimate Frisbee is used to winnow the really tough Navy Seals trainees from the not quite really tough Navy Seal trainees. One trainee wrote, “I didn’t mind holding that 200 pound log over my head all morning, but Ultimate Frisbee…now THAT was hard!)


So back and forth we went.

And I soon discovered – I could go back ok, but I had trouble going forth. I had been doing a fair amount of walking so I didn’t think I was in too bad of shape. But I thought wrong. And those two helpings of potato salad? A couple of times I thought I was going to have to eat them again.

And have you ever seen that original Star Trek series episode where Captain Kirk and Spock and others on the bridge of the Enterprise hear what sounds like just a really loud mosquito – but they never see anything? Then (if I remember correctly) they slow down the ship’s video log to super super slo mo and lo and behold they discover that there are aliens on their ship that move at incredible speeds compared to the molasses-like speed of the humanoids.

Well, I was the humanoid and Pastor Mike and several others and Gene “The Difference Maker” were the aliens. I compare my speed to that of a turtle being shot out of marshmallow shooter – incredibly fast for about 12 inches and then incredibly slow. I swear one time I had a good 20 yards of clean air to throw the Frisbee to a team mate. But suddenly one of the aliens (Teenage Mutant Ninja Non-Turtle Jacob) intercepted it! Where did he come from?

I was sweating and panting so bad after the first 20 minutes I was just longing for half-time. SURELY there would be a church-lady marching band halftime show so we could get a break and get some Gatorade and IV’s or SOMETHING!

But they just kept playing.

After what seemed like eons, Pastor Mike mercifully announced, “OK, whoever scores the next two points wins.”

Can I get an “Amen!?”

Within 13 seconds the other team scored twice and we walked off the field.


It was really a lot of fun, but I was really winded. I sat down for a little bit, visited for a while with the sweat rolling off from me. I was so hot from running and it was so humid that my glasses kept fogging up. I wondered, “Did I wander into a sauna or is it just like really really foggy out here?”

When I got home it took a lot longer than normal to walk up the stairs. My thigh muscles had had enough and just decided (WITHOUT my permission) to disconnect from me!

“Wow! How come my legs ain’t working?!?! My brain is commanding my legs to move, but they aren't following orders!!!"

I begged and cajoled and threatened my thigh muscles but they just didn’t want to have anything to do with the rest of my body for the rest of the night.

And my calf muscles were seriously thinking of joining their rebellion.

For a while I thought that I might not be able to go to work the next day. But how would I explain it to my boss?

“Hey Boss, I won’t be in today.”
“Hey Dan, what’s the matter? Are you calling in sick? And why are you mumbling stuff about death and Frisbee and thigh muscle rebellion?”
“No boss, I’m not sick……………………………I’m just calling in ‘old’”

Why Minnesota Is Better Than Arizona

About a month ago my brother emailed me a picture of his thermometer at his house. He and his wife live in Chandler, Arizona (next to Phoenix). The outdoor temperature read 121.9 degrees.

ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY ONE POINT NINE DEGREES!

At least it wasn’t 122!

In Minnesota that’s what ovens are preheated to when lutefisk is cooked. (Lutefisk was originally invented by the Norwegians to glue their boats together and was never meant to be eaten. But tradition has it that Sven and Ole were out fishing in one of the fjords one day and when they got really hungry, Ole said to Sven, “Hey Sven, this glue doesn’t taste too bad!” Whereupon Sven answered, “Well den maybe you should have Lena cook you up a batch for breakfast!”)

When I saw that picture of my brother’s thermometer I began to think about the ways that Minnesota is better than Arizona. Here are the top twenty:

1. Your state’s name comes from the Spanish “Arid Zona,” meaning “But Bob, it’s a dry heat!” Our state name means “Land of Sky-Tinted Water.” Doesn’t that just sound calming and soothing?

2. We have spiders that look like puppies and eat flies and mosquitoes so we can sit outside in the evening.

You have giant spiders that eat people! This big one was hiding under my brother’s pillow and was intending to embalm him that very night!

3. You have maybe 200 lakes; we have 10,000 plus. And some of your lakes are classified as “intermittent.” Do you know what that means? Simply that sometimes they don’t look any different than the desert around them! (“Hey honey, it’s so hot, let’s take the kids out to the lake.” “Well ok, but call first to see if there’s water in it.”).Plus our lakes were made by Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. Moreover, we can drive on our lakes in winter – bet you can’t do that! And we have………… (drum roll please)……………..Lake Superior!

4. Your big city of Phoenix has at least 100 days of 100 degrees above zero every year whereas our little town of Tower had just one day of 60 degrees below zero one time. And just because in winter we can freeze a banana so hard we can use it to hammer a nail into a board or just because we can create a little snowstorm by throwing a cup of boiling water into the air doesn’t mean we can’t live here.

(With the oven preheated to 300 degrees)
Bullhead City, AZ resident wife: Honey why is your head in the oven?
Bullhead City, AZ resident husband: Don’t bother me! I’m trying to cool off!

5. You have to wear asbestos oven mitts and asbestos shorts when you go to start your car in the summer lest you become a victim of spontaneous combustion. (“Oh hi Harriet, whose ashes are those in the urn?” “Oh hi Sally, those are Bob’s, he tried to start the car without wearing his asbestos underwear.”) We on the other hand can run out to the garage in our PJ’s even when its 20 below, start the car, and run back in and not be on fire!

6. In baseball, you have the Diamondbacks and we have the Minnesota Twins. Now doesn’t “Twins” just sound so much nicer? Don’t believe me? Well just listen to these two sentences:
“Oh honey, did you hear that the Andersons had TWINS! Isn’t that WONDERFUL?”
or
“Oh honey, did you hear that the Andersons had SNAKES ON THEIR PLANE! Isn’t that horrible?”

7. And speaking of snakes, you have poisonous ones; we just have little green garter snakes. But maybe we do have a couple of venomous snakes, I’m not sure. There might be some Water Moccasins in Little Cormorant Lake where my mom lives. I think one was chasing me one time when I was waterskiing as a kid. And you guys even have a website dedicated to snakes called www.snakesofarizona.com (whereas we don’t have one dedicated to lutefisk).

8. You speak a funny language called English; everyone in Minnesota has a strong Norwegian brogue and punctuates every sentence with “Uff Dah!” (According to Wikipedia “Uff Dah” is an all-purpose expression and is often used as a term for sensory overload. For example you often hear this expression when you are walking down the street in Ulen or Hitterdahl, “Uff Dah! Luftputefartøyet mitt er fullt av ål! (which means, “I have sensory overload because my hovercraft is full of eels!”)

9. We have grass…you have sand. And we mow our grass…you paint yours.

10. You have scorpions that hide in your shoes and wait to bite you; we used to have Scorpion Snowmobiles.


This is a picture of my brother fighting a scorpion in his backyard this past June before they could have a barbecue.


11. You have dust storms, we have snowstorms. (Newsflash – snow melts, dirt doesn’t!)





12. We can build a snowman in the winter (which is like September through June); you can build what? A sandcastle on the beach of one your “intermittent lakes?”

13. You have cactus…we have trees. You can’t build houses out of cacti...or is it cactusseses?

14. We have iron ore – lots of it; you just have gold and silver and copper and cactus. Ok, I’ll give you that one.

15. We have icy roads in the winter, you have….non-icy roads in the winter. Ok, so that one goes to you also. But you haven’t really lived until you’ve had the opportunity to slide down the highway backwards so that you can see where you’ve been.

16. You have lots of swimming pools that you have to chlorinate and clean, we have lots of swimming holes that God keeps clean for us.

17. You have snowbirds that live in little metal containers lined up in neat little rows; we have robins and blue birds and geese and ducks and eagles and blackbirds and pelicans and herons ….need I say more?

18. You have Superstition Mountain, we have….well ok let’s skip this one. Although in Duluth we have Spirit Mountain and Spirit Valley! But it’s really more like Spirit Bump and Spirit Dip, but don’t tell anyone.

19. We have “Minnesota Nice.” You have “Gila MONSTERS!!!” (That just gives me the heebeegeebees.)


20. And finally, we have HOTDISH ON A STICK! (It’s held together with Lutefisk Super Glue.) You don’t have ANYTHING that even compares to that, not even tacos and burritos. (Although I might rethink that one)


Ok Arizona, here’s your chance to reply to this. Just email me or post to this blog and I’ll put your replies on here. Unless of course you come up with good reasons why Arizona is better than Minnesota, then I’ll just ignore them :>)

(By the way Arizona…you really do have a wonderful state with beautiful desert scenery)

Dan Vander Ark
Copyright 2011
All Rights Reserved

Honey, Do You Think We Should Bolt the Pig Down?

A few months ago during my normal rush-to-get-ready-for-work routine, my wife asked (as we headed out the door), “Honey, do you think we should bolt the pig down?”

The question stopped me dead in my tracks. I really didn’t know how to answer that.

As a husband/father/halfway-mature adult I’ve pondered some weighty matters in life.

Questions like:
“Daddy, are we there yet?”
“Why am I bowlegged?”
“If a chicken and a half can lay an egg and a half in a day and a half, how many eggs will 24 chickens lay in 24 days?”
“Grampa, where did your hair go?”

From childhood to adulthood we find it difficult trying to answer these and other perplexities.

And now I was baffled once again. Not quite as puzzled as on the “1.5 Chicken” question, but perplexed nonetheless.

We had bolted down Gunslinger Frog a couple years ago, and so it just seemed reasonable to Kay that we should bolt the pig down.

My wife was of course referring to the small metal sculptured flying pig that we have sitting on the backyard steps.

Of course.


Why bolt the frog and pig down? The answer is simple: wind and thieves – we don’t want them blowing around and we don’t want them going home with strangers. A couple of years ago I argued forcibly to have Gunslinger mounted on the deck in the front of the house so he could be readily visible to all of the people on our busy residential street. I so much wanted them to be able to enjoy the redneck flea market artwork also.

But I lost the argument. “The Frog,” Kay said with a fervor rarely seen in a Norwegian, “Stays in the back!”

And speaking of high-brow art (if I may digress for a moment). At my daughter and son-in-law’s place in the country they just remodeled their bathroom. And for a while they had the old toilet sitting between the house and hot tub room, waiting to be hauled to the landfill. A friend of our 8 year old grandson (Noah) came over to their place to play one day. As our daughter and Noah and his friend Ricky drove into their driveway and parked not too far from the toilet, Noah deadpanned, “Hey Ricky, we’re remodeling the bathroom so you have to go out here.” His friend replied with a look of horror, “NO WAY!”

I mentioned to my wife that we could put that toilet in our front yard for a planter, but she declined. I thought that geraniums would look real nice in it. I then suggested to our son-in-law that he put it in their little pond where the sump pump shoots out like Old Faithful every few minutes. They could place the toilet directly over the protruding sump pump line. And every few minutes – the seat would fly up and water would come gushing out of the bowl like a geyser.

I ask you, what’s cooler than that? Who WOULDN’T want one of those in their yard?

Back to the pig and frog.

So each evening when I come home from work, I greet the frog. “Yo Gunslinger, whazzup?”

And the pig…well the pig never did get bolted down. He hasn’t gone home with strangers yet – apparently there’s not much of a call among thieves in our area for flying pigs. And as for flying? Well he sits lower to the ground than the frog and thus is more stable than Gunslinger, so he’s less likely to get airborne in the wind. Although he does have little wings.

HOLD IT! Come to think of it, I hope I DO see him flying! Why? Because it would be an answer to one of the most disconcerting and baffling questions I’ve faced in my entire life.

Whether I ask friends or family or coworkers or acquaintances or neighbors, the answer I inevitably get to my life-long question is simply, “When pigs fly!”

And the question?

“Will the Minnesota Vikings ever win the Super Bowl?”

The Nightmare Scenario (A Doctoral Dissertation On The Meaning Of Life During The 2010 Minnesota Vikings Season)

I came up the stairs from the basement family room into the kitchen. My face was just drained of color.
“Honey! What’s wrong? Why is your face so ashen?”
“It’s the nightmare scenario,” I mumbled.
“What?!?! Something horrible happened?!?!” Why are you so incoherent? Your words are all garbled!”
She knows I watch the news all of the time so she figured some world tragedy had just taken place.
“It’s the sum of all fears!” I muttered.
“What? What happened? Did California fall into the ocean???”
I grabbed her firmly by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes.
“No, its worse than that! It’s just horrible!”
“DAN, WHAT HAPPENED?” she demanded.
“The Packers…” It was so painful to get the words out. I struggled to continue, “The Packers…(gulp)…are going to the Super Bowl!”
She stared at me for a moment, then rolled her eyes and walked away. I heard her mumbling something about men and football and “I’m going shopping.”

I breed pulple.
Hold it, I typed that wrong. I’m still a little distraught.
Let me try that again.
I…bleed…purple.

I am a Minnesota Viking fan – I’ve been a Viking fan since kindergarten. I was actually born in Reedsburg, Wisconsin and lived in Beloit but we only stayed a few months. Sometime during our stay in Beloit my dad had a vision in the middle of the night that forever changed our lives.
A ghostly apparition appeared at the end of my mom and dad’s bed at 1:03AM.
“VAN!” the apparition hollered through the bullhorn.
My dad awoke with a fright, “Wh…wh…whoo are you?”
“Are you Van of the Vander Ark Tribe?”
“Y-y-y-yessss I am,” my dad said with his eyes bugging out, “Who are y-y-y-you?”
“I am the Angel of Bud Grant!”
“Old Stone Face Himself? Wow, this is so cool!!!” My dad woke up my mom, “Hey honey, ITS BUD GRANT! RIGHT HERE IN OUR BEDROOM!!!”
“Van, I am not Bud Grant per se; I am the angel of Bud Grant, I just look like him; now pay attention!”
“Yes Sir.”
“Van, you and your young wife Dorothy and your son Jan must arise immediately and take your Valiant Purple Warrior Son Dan to the land of Sky-Blue-Water!”
My dad looked puzzled, “Are you sure you have the right house? Danny has red hair?”
“Yes I have the right house!!!” the angel bellowed through the bull horn.
“Oh, ok, that’s it? Just take the kid to Minnesota? And we just go west on highway 10, right?”
“Yup, that’s right….just settle in the Village of Sauk Rapids for the time being.”
“Ok Bud-Angel….ummmm before you go can I ask you a couple of questions?"
“Yes but hurry, I must go.”
“First, why the purple tutu? In the future aren’t we always gonna see old Stone Face pacing the sidelines at Met Stadium with -20 degree temps dressed in just a shortsleeve shirt?”
“The tutu is just for this story, OK? And this NEVER gets out, got that?”
“Ok, got it….and I know nobody’s even thought about it yet, but will the Vikings ever win the Super Bowl?”
Bud-Angel turned a little sullen. He then gathered up his tutu, sat next to my father on the edge of the bed and put his hand on my dad’s shoulder.
“Van, I gotta level with you. This century doesn’t look to good for you and the Vikes.”
Even though the Vikings didn’t exist yet, my dad’s shoulders slumped.
My dad asked with a twinkle of hope in his eyes, “How about the 21st century???”
“Welllllll, all I’m gonna say is...the first decade is kinda down the tubes…..sorry.”

When our two little girls were born I was determined to bring them up right. So when I tucked them into bed at night I would read to them from Grimm’s Fairy Tales about a Wonderful Land called Minnesota with thousands of taxes….excuse me…I mean thousands of lakes. It’s a Beautiful Land where all of the potholes are filled with gold. It’s a land of valiant Viking Warriors called Purple People Eaters like Alan the Page and Carl the Eller that would protect them from all harm.

And the fairy tale went on…”But there is a Dark Land, a land west of the Lake called Michigan. And there is a Town called The Bay of Green where the sun never shines. It is a land made out of limburger cheese, a land where the evil Packerites live. It is the Foreboding Land of Lambeau and their evil king Lombardi the Vince.”

“Daddy?”
“Yes honey, what is it?”
“Daddy, Timmy at preschool said that the Great Treasure at the end of the football rainbow is called the Lombardi Trophy. Why is it named after such an evil king, Daddy?”
“Well honey, let me just finish the story, ok? We’ll talk about that when you’re older.”
I continued, “And the evil Packerites have one big yellow eye in the middle of their foreheads and they have (I paused just a moment for theatrical effect)…….GREEN TEETH!!!” In the dark I shined the flashlight under my chin toward my face to project a scene of horror.
“Daddy?”
“Yes honey?”
“Mommy said green tea is good for you.”
“Not green tea, honey, GREEN TEETH. Now pay attention, ok? And just remember, if you and your three year old sister want to go out and play, both of you first have to write a 1,000 word essay on the benefits of the 3-4 defense versus the 4-3.”
I continued, “And they have……”
“Daddy, what is that really big game called – the one with the really cool commercials?”
“Well, honey, it’s a wonderful game called…THE SUPER BOWL!” Both of my daughter’s eyes filled with wonder as I explained to them about that great game called…THE SUPER BOWL!
“Wow daddy, and I bet those great Viking Warriors have won a bunch of those Lombardi trophies, huh daddy, right????”
“Well, ummm…..lets just continue with the story about those evil Packerites, ok? You can ask questions later.”
“OK daddy…and I bet those evil Packerites haven’t won any of those Lumbar trophies, have they daddy?.............Right Daddy?”
“Daddy, why are you starting to turn purple? Is that how the Purple People Eaters looked?”
“Ok, that’s enough of that story tonight; lights out…time to go to sleep.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Daddy, can I have a glass of lime Kool-Aid in my yellow sippy cup?”
“NO!”
“But Daddy I’m thirsty!”
“GO TO SLEEP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
I walked into the living room. “Kay, how many times do I have to tell you we only allow grape Kool-Aid in this house!”

But alas, the Fairy Tale Indoctrination Program failed. One of my daughters has become a Green Bay Packer fan.
I haven’t spoken to her since the third grade.

I emailed a Packer friend after Green Bay lost to Detroit on December 12th, “Hey, it looks all of us in the NFC North stink!”
But guess what? They became stink free whilst we withered away into total stinkdom.

Even though we had a remarkable season during 2009 with Brett Farve, to be honest with you, I was never quite in favor of having the Bertmeister come to the Vikings. Don't get me wrong -- I think he's a fantastic quarterback and exciting to watch. But I just figured we’d have a good quarterback (make that "Great" quarterback) for two years at most, but then we'd be back to square one.

Thanks for the memories Brett...I guess you've submitted your official retirement papers with the NFL.

(Hold everything! Maybe things ain't gonna be so bad in 2011 -- I just heard on ESPN that James Cameron has created an Avatar for Brett!)

My mom grew up during the Great Depression and was a welder on the Liberty ships in California during WWII and has a lot of wisdom and grit. She used to tell us kids when we were growing up that (when we go through trials) whatever doesn’t kill us would make us stronger. But my mom was never a Viking fan.

People that know me probably won’t believe this but I actually cheered for the Packers back in the 90’s when they played the Patriots in the Super Bowl. And when I pastored the church out at Hawthorne, Wisconsin, more often than not I wanted the Packers to win for the sake of the kids (I never told the grownups that) – I just hated seeing the pain on their faces when their team lost.

I tell ya the last couple of years have just been Susan Boyle/ Les Misérables: “I Dreamed A Dream”…..but Tracy Porter of the Aints intercepted it.

This year in Vikingdom the season has culminated in the nightmare scenario. Our stadium collapsed on December 12th and the game had to be cancelled due to snow in Minnesota in December.

What?

Which resulted in playing a home game in Detroit.

What?

And then we played a Monday night game versus Chicago at the Gophers stadium.

Vikings and Gophers and Bears, oh my!!!

(Gophers…now that’s one team mascot name that sure strikes fear into the opposing teams. I know when I see a gopher out in the wild I make a run for it! That’s why I wear those little bells when I go hiking.)

Well, at least we aren’t Detroit…nobody ever finishes behind Detroit.

Hold it…I just looked at the standings…we are behind Detroit! How did that happen???

I gotta admit, the Packers have been on quite a run – winning their last five must-win games and it all started in late December versus the Giants:

Ok, so maybe they slaughtered the Giants, but they’re probably gonna lose to the Bears.
Ok, so maybe they beat the Bears, but they’re probably gonna lose to the Eagles.
Ok, so the Packers were kryptonite to SuperVick and they beat the Eagles, but for sure they’re gonna lose to top-ranked Atlanta and “Matty Ice.”
Ok, so maybe Matt Ryan frosted up, but they’re probably gonna lose to the Bears and their really durable quarterback Jay Cutler.
Ok, so maybe Cutler aint as durable as Favre and they beat the Bears, but they’re probably gonna lose to.....hold it! They’re in the _____ ____! (I can’t even write those words.)

I came to work Monday following the victory of the Packers over da Bears. My eyesight isn’t the greatest and at first I thought I was seeing a giant ad for General Mills Cereal & Cheerios (Remember? “Big G, little o…”). But it wasn’t. It was an 80 X 120 foot Packer banner at the end of the corridor next to Darth Nancy’s cubicle. Even though she’s just on the other side of the cubicle wall, I didn’t say good morning or anything to her. My cube was a bit of a mess so I decided take out some of my frustrations and turn my keyboard over and bang it on the desk to try to knock loose some of the fungus (or is it funguy?) and trees that were starting to grow on the QWERTY row. That’s when Darth Nancy spoke, “Now Dan, you don’t have to beat your head on your desk, its not that bad.”

Oh yes it is, Darth!

Just a few moments later Darth Annie of the Lake Nebagamon Sith sent me an email. It had the picture of the 4+4+4 (Favre jerseys) = 12 (Rodgers jersey) with this comment, “Who would have thought we would be going to the Super Bowl? You really should have moved to this side of the border. It’s just better over here. Of course, some Minnesota people have come to their senses and thrown their lot in with the Packers. Are you ready for a conversion?”

My reply? “This is what I feared…the nightmare scenario.” I later emailed something like, “Got any more of these? You might as well just get them all out now, or is it gonna be drip drip drip over the next two weeks?”

It was drip, drip, drip…

The next day she sent me the email/picture of the Bears new quarterback….Brett Favre!
Then an email about all those teams that have championship rings with diamonds…and a picture of onion rings with a caption, “Viking’s rings.” It was around noon time and I was hungry and they actually looked kind of good. I could almost smell those Vikings Rings.
Then she forwarded an email from some Green Bay organization asking if I wanted to help the Packers get as many people to the Big Game as possible.
I guess she sent 7,498 emails the past few days to try to cheer me up, but most didn’t make it through our company’s spam filter.

I have hated the Steelers ever since Super Bowl IX, but now I’m kinda liking those guys. With Troy P_________ (I have no clue how to spell his last name - and I sure like his hair – but then I like anybody’s hair) and Ben Ruthlessburger – who knows what might happen. My good friend Adnaw lives in Packer land but she’s a big Steeler fan (I spelled her name backwards to protect her identity). I left a message for her the other night, “Wanda….excuse me…Adnaw, I am praying for you that you will have strength to stand against those evil Packer hordes!”

Well, I gotta go. I have an appointment with my psychiatrist – he’s the same guy that’s on that Geico commercial. You know, the former drill sergeant turned psychiatrist. And I kinda think the patient in that commercial probably wasn't a Packer fan because he says something like, “That’s why the colors yellow and green make me sad…” But he obviously wasn't a Viking fan, he's too wimpy for that. With everything we've gone through, you have to be super tough to be root for the Norsemen. I just read that on the first mission to Mars NASA will be recruiting Vikings fans...we know how to endure hardship. So here's to the toughest (and BEST!) fans in the NFL...Vi skal slå dag og vinne Super Bowl!!!

Oh, just a note to my boss. If by the slimmest of chances the Packers lose, I’ll be in Monday at my regular time of 5:30 to lend moral support to you and the others in the office. (Turns out my boss is a Packer fan. My mouth just dropped open when I learned that. I mentioned to my boss’s boss, “I thought Human Resources was going to filter out those applicants?”)

But if they win (I guess I should say “when they win”), I put in a PTO request…so I’ll be in on Tuesday………………………………..July 5th.

Finally, I have just one other thing to say to you Packer fans… (This section is for Packer fans only!).
(Scroll down)














Just a little more….














Just a little more…















Hey you Viking Fans! Scroll up NOW!..........(Packer fans keep going).













Just a little more…











Congratulations to the Packers on a wonderful season and good luck in the Super Bowl.
(But you DIDN’T hear that from me!)
Life is good……………:>)



Dan Vander Ark
Copyright 2011
All Rights Reserved

Adventures In Dishwashing (Ode To The Dishwasher)

Our new dishwasher is now almost 2 years old. Its birthday is December 9th. It’s been used twice. Three times tops. For a bunch of years we actually had three dishwashers, but two of them graduated from high school and moved out. And the third one came with the house when we moved in back in 1994. No, no, no, it wasn’t a leftover teenager from the previous owner or anything like that. The third one was the mechanical kind. But it didn’t work, so we just used it to store air for 14 years. Therefore since 1994 the dishes were always washed by hand; and for about the last decade it’s been just my wife and I (although I guess the dog helped some, but don’t tell that to our friends or family). To tell you the truth, I feel that washing the dishes together gives us a time to talk and catch up on the news of the day. And it has definitely helped to cement our relationship together. Here is a sample of one of our more intimate conversations: Me: “How was your day?” Kay: “Fine.” Kay: “And how was your day?” Me: “Fine.” Those deep exchanges of emotion over a sink full of dishes have helped us both to face the trials of life. But sometimes the conversations aren’t quite that intimate; on occasion we just stare out the window and watch the squirrels fight over the sunflower seeds. Or occasionally I guess we do talk about some pretty serious stuff. You know, like “Was Yogi Berra the catcher for the New York Yankees or the cartoon bear that lived in Jellystone National Park?” Or, “Hey Honey, the neighbors aren’t burning furniture in their backyard again are they?” Even though most of the time the dishwashing-conversations are about problem solving global issues, every now and then we get to laughing so hard that Joy soap bubbles come out our nose. And occasionally I guess we just goof around. Like the other night – I washed the big pizza pan, she dried it and then held it up to her face like a shield and was peaking at me through the millions of little holes to see if I still looked the same. And I’ve been known to put the spaghetti strainer on my head and pretend to be contacting Mars or Iowa. And Kay does a pretty good job of imitating the sound that the garbage disposal makes. If we are washing the dishes between 5-7 on Saturday evenings, we try to listen to Garrison Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion.” When we told that to my nephew David and his wife-to-be Katie (would that be your niece-in-law?), they thought it was just so romantic. I always wash, and Kay always dries. And it always goes from right to left – that whole process never changes. But if I time it right (and pretend to be busy) she will actually start washing the dishes. Then I will suddenly race into the kitchen, and while trying to catch my breath, say something like, “Oh Honey, I am sooooo sooorrrryy!!! Here let me help! I got distracted watching Ice Road Truckers on TV.” I then commence to washing the remaining dishes while she has to dry all of them. And she often reminds me that I put in too much soap. Every night its, “Dan, its CONCENTRATED! You don’t need that much soap!” My reply? “What did you say? Sorry, I was concentrating.” I then, in a Moses-at-the-Red-Sea fashion, part the enormous mountain of soap so that I can see the dishes. As Kay was putting the dishes into the cupboard one evening after she dried them, it was only natural that during one of our dishwashing conversations we pondered just why the cupboard is called the “cupboard.” We figured it must have originated from medieval days when the cups were simply placed on a rough hewn oak board to dry. After supper the wife would say to the husband, “Put the cups up on that rough hewn oak board.” But when Monday Night Football rolled around a few years later (I think Howard Cosell started in like 1869), the husband was suddenly in a big hurry so the wife would simply say, “Put the dishes on the cupboard before you even THINK about sitting down in front of the TV!” And later on, hickory doors and pewter door pulls were added so that’s how come we now say, “Put the dishes IN the cupboard.” Anyway, back to the dishwasher. We run the dishwasher through a wash cycle about every other month just so it doesn’t get rusty or full of cobwebs. And every once in a great while we even put dishes into it so that it doesn’t lose its sense of dish-esteem. Maybe I would be more in favor of actually using the dishwasher more often if in fact it put the dishes away. To be perfectly honest with you, I was more than a little aghast when I opened the dishwasher door after the first time we washed the dishes and found that they were STILL IN THE DISHWASHER! I guess maybe we need to buy the companion Kenmore Dishputterawayer. Or maybe we could raise a couple more dishwashers in our old age. And the boy would be named Ken More Vander Ark. And the girl would be called May Tag Vander Ark. Ode To The Dishwasher: Oh dishwasher Oh dishwasher O Giant piece of Kenmore plastic (That’s all I have – it’s a work in progress) Or I guess it could be a limerick: There once was a dishwasher named Kenmore It didn’t know why it was here for It never got used It felt so abused It just fills up the space on the floor (Please submit your favorite dishwashing limerick to me [email dan.lee.vanderark@gmail.com]. The best one will be put on the blog and you will receive a signed picture of me with a spaghetti strainer on my head)

========================================================== From my friend Ron... Hi Dan, I loved the dishwasher column. - I think anyone who was married in the 60s has their own dishwashing machine stories...including the flooded floors - HA! I have one for you in honor of T-Bone...by the way it was great to see him on your blog! - Here it is... We used to wash dishes alone, But then along came our T-Bone He never came late... He licked every plate 'til the last scrap of food was all gone! Have a great day, Ron Jer. 10:23 NIV

A Flying Black Lab and Other Misadventures in Snowmobiling

We ran into the house and yelled, "Mom's going to try it!" My dad and two brothers and sister and I watched as we saw a flash go by the dining room window, across the lawn and over the dead end gravel road of our rural Moorhead, Minnesota home. We ran outside but all we could see was one handle bar and a boot on the far side of the road. Mom had tipped over and caught the laces of her boot on the handle bar and was laughing about her mishap. She was later dubbed “Snoopy” by someone in the family because of the way she looked when she rode the snowmobile.

As teenagers there were two things we lived for – duck hunting in the fall and snowmobiling in the winter. They were just about as greatly anticipated as that of the appearance of St. Nick. We couldn’t wait for the duck hunting season to open the first part of October and we couldn’t wait for it to snow in November so we could ride the snowmobiles. To quote my mom, “Once snowmobiling started, NOTHING else got done around the house.”

Our addiction to snowmobiling began in December of 1968. On Christmas Eve to be exact. My dad and brothers and I drove up to Roseau, Minnesota to pick up a brand new 1969 Polaris Colt. It had a steel frame, a 300cc single cylinder JLO engine, and bogey wheel suspension. We were in heaven! (A guy on EBay just recently sold a ’69 Colt, still in the crate, for $6500!)

But there was just one problem – we couldn’t get it started. Until Polaris came out with the twin cylinder Star engines in about 1970, the JLO engines were just about the most temperamental starting things on the planet. So that Christmas Day we actually took the back door of the house off the hinges, brought the snowmobile INSIDE to warm it up (bless my mom’s heart – I don’t think Martha Stewart would have ever allowed that). It was flooded and we didn’t know about the magical little drain plug at the bottom of the crankcase. I will always remember the site of spark plugs warming themselves on the burner on the stove. That still brings a tear to my eye.

When my dad and brothers finally got it started there was joy in the Vander Ark household! We drove it at least 10 miles around the yard and down the ditches before it broke down. The first couple of years the snowmobiles were in the garage shop getting fixed just as much as they were being ridden. The next year we got a 1970 Charger and that had its share of flaws also. I remember welding the foot rests on either the Colt or Charger – I had the back propped up and didn’t realize there was a slight gasoline leak (the gas tank was on the back) which ran down the snow covered running board and toward where I was welding. I flipped up the welding mask only to see the running board on fire. Snow works really well to put out a fire.

It wasn’t until the fall of 1970 when we got the first TX that things really changed. It had the Polaris Star engine and slide rail suspension. But the coolest part was that the engine stuck out of the hood. I think it was in late February of 1971 that my brother and I planned to ride the sleds to our grandparents in Madison, Minnesota – 150 miles away! In our teenager minds an even greater achievement than the Plaisted Polar Expedition that rode snowmobiles to the North Pole in 1968. They had to battle 474 miles across towering ice ridges, open water leads, and the drifting ice pack on their way to the pole. But hey, we had to battle the rock hard ditches of the Red River Valley on the way to Grandma’s house! And they may have had the backing of the Canadian Air Force, but we had far more important backing – that of our mom and dad! We planned and packed and planned and packed. No support vehicles – just a bunch of tools, tape, wire and a can of quick start. We got halfway when the motor mounts on the Charger broke and we had to leave it with a farmer by Wheaton, MN. We rode the rest of the way on the TX and finally made it to grandma’s about 6:00. Somewhere near Ortonville, Minnesota we heard a loud boom in the back of the snowmobile. The can of quick start had exploded from the bumpy day-long ride. But we finally made it. That’s one small step for two teenagers, one giant leap for snowmobilekind.

A couple of years later a bunch of us actually rode snowmobiles from Fargo to Winnipeg -- 240 miles – in one day! My biggest memory of that trip was hitting a manure spreader north of the border. I think my dad had sort of kind of told us to ride together but, as a typical lead-footed teenager, I wanted to be out front. A few miles into Canada I encountered a farmer on his tractor – he was headed south, was pulling a manure spreader and I was heading north and was not pulling anything. The farmer turned east off the highway directly in front of me. I hit the brakes on the TX, slid the machine sideways and slammed into the wheel of the manure spreader. My ankle was caught between the sled and the wheel of the spreader. It was like a fly hitting the side of an elephant. I got off the machine, limped up to the guy on the tractor, and asked, “Are you all right?” Maybe he swore at me in Canadian, I can’t remember.

For Christmas one year I wanted a new snowmobile helmet lettered with the words, “The Flying Dutchman.” After some gifts were opened on Christmas Eve my family said, "Danny, why don’t you open up your gift?" I knew it was the helmet. I ripped off the paper ripped open the box. It was just a horrible looking old white helmet that was dreadfully lettered with a black permanent marker. They asked me how I liked it. “Well, uh, it’s nice.” I couldn’t wait to get my hands on Santa. They all laughed and then gave me the real thing. My dad was always the practical joker. (Like when my younger brother got married. He was a lieutenant in the Army and, after the wedding, was given a couple of weeks to get to his duty station in Virginia. My dad had someone from the radio station pretend that he was a sergeant in the Army with a change in orders for my brother. The imposter called my brother the NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING to inform him that he had to leave immediately for the WEST COAST! We all had a good laugh from that).

A couple of months ago, my mom mentioned that our sister Lisa, the youngest of the four kids, would never hang her snowmobile suit with us three boys. Something about the fact that ours were icky. I emailed her about that and this was her exact reply, “Yes, she's right. You got it. In fact I still have my suit. It's in a box in the garage and it still looks like new.” That’s just sick.

The late 60’s and early 70’s was the first golden era of snowmobiling. And it seemed that everyone was manufacturing snowmobiles. Not only did you have the biggies, but there were also a zillion other makes: Massey Ferguson, John Deere, Rupp, Scorpion, Yukon King, Viking, Mercury, and Evinrude. There was one (I can’t remember the name of it) but you rode side-by-side in sort of a cockpit. There was Alouette, Ariens, and Suzuki. There was Boa Ski, Chaparral, Homelite and Harley Davidson. Harley Davidson? There was Kawasaki, Montgomery Ward, Sears (did JC Penney make a snowmobile?), Moto-Ski, Northway, Mallard, Roll-O-Flex, and Silverline. There was Ski-Bee, Ski-Daddler, Ski-Doo, Ski-Jet, Skiroule, Ski-Whiz and Ski-Zoom… There was Sno Cub, Sno Flite, Sno Fury, Sno Ghia, Sno-Pac, Sno-Pony, Sno-Prince and even a Snow Flake. My high school friend Mark had a Sno Jet. He thought they were so cool because the track left the word “Sno Jet” imprinted in the snow. A couple of times we wanted to leave him imprinted in the snow. The “Snowmobile Service Manual 11th Edition (1962-1986)" lists 75 snowmobile manufacturers. 75! But as a Polaris family, we hated both Ski-Doo and Arctic Cat. To us, they were Ski-Don’t and Arctic Rat. A friend from Hayward, Wisconsin read this story and emailed me: “You don’t want to know what we called Polaris, it wasn’t very nice!” I asked where she grew up. “Thief River Falls.” No wonder :>). Today, the site of a vintage snowmobile ride and the thick blue haze of two-cycle exhaust brings back some great memories.

In about 1969 I went with my dad to a snowmobile race in Brainerd. I saw the Rupp Dragster up close. It was a really cool twin track snowmobile in the shape of a dragster. The track announcer said Mickey Rupp would be driving the dragster that day. I had a black and white 8x10 glossy photo of this amazing machine and took it up to the Rupp team for Mickey to sign it. “Don’t let ‘em snow job ya kid!” one of the guys said. Meaning this – Mickey ain’t anywhere close to Minnesota. Someone signed his name for me though.

My brothers and I also did the racing thing. They may not admit it, but I have actually won the most money in the family from snowmobiling racing. An amazing $35.00 for winning a junior race in Madison, Minnesota. A while back I asked my older brother if he remembers how much he made. He said he thought about $15.00. I gleefully informed him that I had doubled his earnings. But he disputes it, he thinks I just have a better memory. Once at the Glyndon Speedway I was on the starting line with the old 69 Colt which had a megaphone exhaust pipe. It didn’t actually go real fast but it sounded fast. The flag dropped, I hit the throttle and the engine died. I looked over at the sidelines and a high school classmate was laughing at me.

One of the highlights of winter was going with our dad when he covered the Winnipeg to St. Paul I-500 Snowmobile Race for KFGO radio station. That was huge for us. My brothers and I would keep the stats and we would stop every so often so my dad could phone in a report. “This is Van Vander Ark reporting from Pembina,” or Karlstad, or Crookston, or Ada, or Alexandria or St. Paul. He tried covering the race one year with a small plane, but got stuck at a little airport in Ada and wound up using a car anyway. So that was the end of covering the I-500 by air. And one year he entered the I-500 as a press entrant. He loved telling the story of passing Stan Hayes, one of the pro drivers for Polaris, on the lakes north of Alexandria, Minnesota. Unfortunately though, on that day Stan ran out of gas a mile short of the finish line. A high school classmate of mine rode in the I-500, and when he left Winnipeg it was about -30 and his goggles had broken. When he came back to school he kind of looked like Rory Raccoon with the frost bitten area around his eyes. He was the same guy that laughed at me at the starting line when my snowmobile died. That’s what he gets.

I got married at age 18 and then at 19 joined the Army so I wasn’t around Minnesota much after 1974. When I told my family I was going to get married, my younger brother Kevin said, “Danny, what about snowmobiling?” Kevin did most of the snowmobile racing later on. He entered several cross country races and also entered the I-500 twice and did real well. He was up with the lead pack one year but he hadn’t reinforced the front suspension like the pro’s had and eventually broke down from the brutal ride. One of the racers said that the I-500 wasn’t so much a race as it was an ordeal.

In 1969 our dad was invited by Ted Otto from Polaris to cover the Midnight Sun 600 which ran from Anchorage to Fairbanks. At one spot along the way (Tok) it was -71 and at another spot the National Guard had recorded a wind-chill of -145. At the finish line in Fairbanks it was -43. The conditions must have just been simply too vicious because I think they only ran that race one year.

A few days ago I emailed Ken Kjelvik, one of my high school friends, about vintage snowmobiles. At the end of his email reply he said this, “Man, we put a lot of miles on back then, never to cold, never to sore to ride, it was just plain fun.” It certainly was.

My dad’s sister in Florida and my mom’s sister in California couldn’t understand why our mom and dad chose to live in northern Minnesota. But for them (and us) there were many reasons to live in this wonderful area – the four seasons, the 10,000 lakes, the brilliant fall colors, the beauty of freshly snow-covered landscape, the sound of geese heading south in the winter. And perhaps a small part of that choice was the joy of snowmobiling in the winter. Our dad, who passed away in 2002, simply loved the sport and we are grateful for all of the wonderful memories he and our mom provided us.

But I will leave you with a little story that my dad wrote in about 1999. I chuckle every time I read it. The following is in his own words: “Over the years I continued enjoying the sport, but had a close call one day after an early season snowfall. I had purchased a 1978 Polaris liquid cooled machine and took it out for a ride along the mile long dead end gravel road where we lived east of Moorhead. After riding in the ditch for a little bit I decided to try it out on the road. I took a good look to make sure that Max, our big black lab (that liked to ride with me on the snowmobile) had gone back to the house. I didn't see him and so I decided to try it out as fast as I could go down the hardpacked road. Taking a quick look at the speedometer as it passed 75mph, I was horrified when I looked up and saw Max coming out of the ditch directly in front of me. He ran right down the middle of the road! I tried to turn to miss him, but couldn’t – I was going to fast. I caught sight of him flying through the air after I scooped him up with the front of the snowmobile. My machine started sliding sideways and finally caught hold of the rough gravel on the side of the road and flipped over. I remember seeing the machine flying over me upside down and I prayed quickly that it wouldn't fall on me. It cleared the road ditch and landed right side up in the field. Amazingly, only the windshield was broken! I slid down the road for some distance and finally into the ditch near a neighbor's house. With wobbly knees I ran onto the road expecting to find Max dead or badly injured. But at first I couldn’t find him. I then looked toward our house and saw him running at break neck speed down the long driveway. I ran after him and caught up with him at the back door. We were both shaking. I checked him over carefully and found only a small cut on one of his feet. Later, I went back to the spot where we impacted and where Max the Wonder Dog had landed. At the landing spot you could clearly see his high-speed dog tracks on the edge of the road. From the point of impact to where Max landed it was a distance of some 75 feet. That has to be a world record for a Flying Black Labrador!”

Heart Transplant At Age 19!

Most people aren’t aware of the fact that I had a heart transplant when I was 19 years old. Our family physician had matter-of-factly informed me that although I looked fairly healthy on the outside, my heart was ravaged by disease and was desperately sick. I had my whole life ahead of me, but now it was in jeopardy.

I grew up in Minnesota and lived for the first 12 years in St. Cloud, our family then moved to Moorhead in 1969. In my growing up years we (my two brothers and one sister) did the normal kid stuff. Living in the country gave us the opportunity to play in the sandpit and go squirrel hunting. I was a young “mad scientist” – I loved chemistry sets and attempted making rocket fuel and other weird concoctions. We went rabbit and pheasant hunting, we lived for duck hunting, we couldn’t wait for it to snow so we could go snowmobiling, and we looked forward to spending time at a resort in the summer so we could go swimming, skiing and fishing. Our parents expected us to work hard (we must have considered it “inhumane treatment”) but they also entrusted us with responsibilities that most kids today don’t have the privilege of experiencing. We drove the boat, we raced snowmobiles ($35.00 was my total life’s winnings), my brother and I had purchased six cars by the time we were out of high school and we overhauled some of them. As teenagers we were allowed to make the 150 mile trip by ourselves to our grandparents’ house for hunting trips.

I was the type of kid that didn’t get into major trouble or become addicted to drugs. But even though I was quieter and pretty much non-rebellious, somewhere in my junior year of high school I sort of lost it for awhile. My hair got long (pony tail long), my grades went down some and I even got drunk a couple of times. My older brother and I took a course in high school in “Transcendental Meditation” and for awhile I did the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi chanting thing. I had the typical teenager lead-foot syndrome and got a couple of speeding tickets. The worst thing I can remember doing? One Sunday morning a few of us went to the place where I was employed and we ripped off a bunch of car parts. My friend and I were trying to pull the tires off one of the vehicles – we loosened the lug nuts and I pulled – but when I pulled the car fell down and my wrist was clamped between the tire and the fender. But my friend was strong enough to lift up the car just enough for me to pull my hand out.

In 1973 I graduated from Moorhead High. Our team mascot was a potato – we were the Spuds! (When other teams played us their posters read, “Mash the Spuds!”) In the fall of that year I married Kay and she was working in a nursing home as an aide and I was working at Dayton’s department store in Fargo as a stock clerk. Our little upstairs apartment was small but it was ours – the rent was $88.00 per month. Our car was a 1960 Ford Falcon – painted canary yellow with one of those sprayed-on black vinyl tops. The gas pedal was held on with a coat hanger wire and when you hit a bump too hard the driver’s window would go “kerthunk!” and fall off the track and down into the door (you always carried a pair of pliers with you so you could pull it back up). Not really knowing what to do with our lives, sometime in the early summer of 1974 Kay and I joined the Uncle Sam’s Army. Kay wanted to go into dentistry and I wanted to go into computers – but Army schooling would have split us up for too long, so we compromised – we became military police! (If you ever want to challenge my wife to a marksmanship contest with an M-16, you might just lose). If I remember correctly, we officially enlisted sometime in June of 1974, but we did not have to go to basic training until September 22nd, so we had most of the summer to be with family and friends. (We would spend our first anniversary apart – me at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri and Kay at Ft McClellan, Alabama. The day we got back together in Fort Gordon Georgia after 2 months of basic training was like a scene right out of Hollywood – but no time to tell that story now.)

But it became very apparent that summer of ’74 that I was sick and I began to realize that something was not right inside of me and that I needed help desperately. But the disease that was ravaging my heart was a special type of malady and needed the attention of an extraordinary doctor. You see, my sickness was not physical in nature, but spiritual. And our family physician was none other than the Great Physician, Jesus Christ Himself. Sometime in the summer of 1974 I had been reading a best-seller written by Hal Lindsey titled, “The Late Great Planet Earth.” On the front cover it said, “A penetrating look at the incredible prophecies (of the Bible) involving this generation.” I was captivated by the fact that the Bible, written so many centuries before, could have implication in the generation in which we were then living. At the end of one of the chapters in “The Late Great Planet Earth,” the author wrote, “As you read this book you may have reached the point where you recognize your inability to live in a way that would cause God to accept you. If this is the case, you may speak to God right now and accept the gift of Christ's forgiveness. It’s so simple. Ask Christ to come into your life and make your life pleasing to God by His power.” I don’t exactly remember where it was or what month it was, but I remember praying that simple prayer and how, for the very first time, Jesus became so very real to me. He took out my diseased heart of sin and gave me a brand new heart! We had attended church regularly when I was growing up but, as most kids did, I found it boring and I hated it. But suddenly I couldn’t get enough of church and I still remember going out to my parents and asking them for a Bible.

I am now 52 years old. I have never ever regretted making that decision to ask Jesus to come into my life. Although many times I have stumbled and fallen along the way, He has never ceased to pour out His mercy and love and joy into my life. His grace truly is amazing! I am still dealing with many shortcomings in my life (I call them "warts"), and believe me, I have plenty of them! At times I can get moody and depressed (ask my wife), I can be sarcastic and unforgiving (ask my mom and brothers and sister), I can do some stupid things (ask my co-workers), I can be impatient and sometimes a little uncaring of sheep (ask my church congregation), and there have been many times when I have had to ask people for their forgiveness. But Jesus has patiently changed me from the inside out and my life is dramatically different from what it used to be. And I owe it all to the One Who suffered the horrors of Calvary for my sin.

My friend Ken H. was wearing a T-Shirt at church one Sunday and I loved the simple saying on the front. “I am the wretch the song refers to.” The familiar church hymn “Amazing Grace” was written by John Newton, a slave ship captain, who was radically transformed in 1748 by the immeasurable love of God. He then went on to testify for the rest of his life about the One Who “saved a wretch like me.” The word “wretch” is defined as “someone who is deplorably unfortunate or an unhappy person.” I, Dan Vander Ark, was the wretch the song refers to! The same Jesus that turned around the life of John Newton is the same Jesus that changed my life – and He is the same Savior that can bring joy and peace and purpose to your life! He is alive today and is still in the business of transforming lives!

Is your life empty? If you were to die tonight do you have a certainty in your heart that you would go to heaven? Is your heart ravaged by the disease called “sin?” Simply ask Jesus to come into your heart today and forgive you of your sins – He loves YOU more than you will ever know!

Copyright 2008 All rights reserved

Rescue from the Red (Angels on Assignment)

Introduction: My dad, Van Vander Ark, wrote a couple of rough drafts of this article in 2000, 2 years before he passed away. He had been an avid snowmobiler for a good portion of his life and covered (for the press) both the I-500 Winnipeg to St. Paul snowmobile race and the Midnight Sun 600 from Anchorage to Fairbanks, Alaska. He loved snowmobiling and told our family this story many years ago. I didn’t know until a couple of years ago that those rough drafts existed. To honor him I tried my best to piece this account together. So the following is the recounting of this amazing rescue…

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The years have passed quickly since that January day in 1986, but I can still see the terrified look in the eyes of then 14 year old Stephanie of Fargo, ND. For some time her step-father Shawn had struggled to pull her out of the raging current in the open water below a spillway on the Red River of the North, but he was unable to. The “Red” forms the border between most of North Dakota and a large portion of Minnesota as it winds its way past Winnipeg, Manitoba and into Lake Winnipeg, the world's 12th largest inland lake.

The two had decided to take a snowmobile ride on the Red River, starting south of Fargo-Moorhead in a tree-lined sheltered area. The area was new to them and they were not aware of the unmarked spillway and the open water below it. In later years this spillway and one further north and closer to downtown Fargo-Moorhead became known as the “drowning machines”— anything that was caught in the deathly grip of the whirlpool rarely survived.

The two rode north with Shawn in the lead. Shawn noticed a trail on the Fargo side of the river and followed it to see where it went. When he saw the spillway he raced back to stop Stephanie, but arrived too late as she rode her machine down the center of the wide river and sailed off the edge of the spillway. Her snowmobile sunk below her and the strong current pushed her body into a V-shaped area of ice on the far side of the open water. Shawn abandoned his machine close to the edge of the spillway and ran around it and onto the ice to try to pull Stephanie out. But as strong as he was, he couldn't overcome the force of the water that held most of her body under the ice’s edge. In fact the current was so strong that it actually pulled off her snowmobile boots. The two struggled without success and the roar of the spillway drowned out their cries for help. The normally busy winter recreational area was void of anyone coming by, perhaps because of the somewhat adverse weather conditions and also the fact that it was time for an NFL football playoff game.

That morning something seemed to be nagging at me to take a ride on my old cross country racer. It was an older 1978 Polaris TXL 340 with a somewhat smaller engine that would top out at about 75 mph. And it was a rough riding snowmobile made before the much smoother independent suspension machines. The day was far from desirable for a ride as the preceding day had been very warm and melted the wind-swept drifts in the flat fields and ditches. The snow had frozen rock hard overnight and so I kept telling myself it would be foolish to ride on such a day. It was overcast, which meant the hardened drifts would be more difficult to see, a fairly strong wind was blowing. Plus the clutch on my machine had just been repaired by the dealer but still appeared to be misaligned.

Given all of that I still couldn't get over the feeling that I had to go to the Red. Finally, I suited up and told my wife Dorothy that I just wanted to check out the clutch and not to worry as I might ride all of the way to the river. We lived several miles east of Moorhead on the south side of Interstate 94. I was then a 56 year old salesman for KFGO radio station in Fargo where I had worked for the past 24 years. My wife asked me if I wouldn't rather stay home and sit by the fireplace and watch the football game. Normally I would have taken her up on it, but I mumbled some sort of excuse and fired up the old TX. When I got to the end of the driveway I then remembered that I had left a rope in the garage that I usually carried in my snowmobile. Just in case I needed it, I went back and tucked it into the storage compartment.

The ditch drifts were hard and jarring. About half way to the Red I stopped by a group of trees to warm my hands under the exhaust of the snowmobile. I debated about continuing on -- the lure to return to the fireside was strong, but I decided to keep going. I finally reached the Red at what was known as the Monastery Bridge where I would usually stop to rest my arms. But this time I decided not to stop and so I kept riding south just a short distance. As I continued on the twisting river the lack of the normal traffic became obvious. I was always careful to watch out for snowmobilers riding on the wrong side in the sharp corners, but seeing only one person in the highway-wide stretch of the river that went north toward the spillway, I began to push the old racer to see what it could still do. The machine went wide open into the corner, and then backed off for a moment, then full throttle again. The speed and the thrill of riding reminded me of the time I rode as a press entrant several years prior in the Winnipeg-St. Paul I-500 snowmobile race.

The last corner before the spillway was broad and I held the throttle wide open. The track studs finally caught in the hard-pack and the old machine seemed to leap ahead. The side of the high windshield folded back telling me without looking at the speedometer that I was doing at least 75 mph.

I slowed for the unmarked spillway and saw a snowmobile parked close to its edge, wondering why anyone would leave it there. Stopping further back, I ran up and looked over the edge and saw Shawn lying spread eagle on the ice and appearing to be trying to retrieve a helmet in the water. But when I looked closer I could see that someone was in the water! I waved my arms and shouted that I was coming, but they couldn't hear me over the roar of the spillway. I raced back to my snowmobile that was still idling and drove as fast as I could around the spillway on the trail. I grabbed my rope (that I had nearly forgotten to bring along) and ran out onto the ice.

It was then I looked into the terrified eyes of Stephanie. Shawn would later tell me that they had been struggling for about 15 minutes and that their cries for help to the nearby homes were drowned out by the roar of the spillway. And he didn't know if his numbed hands could hold her much longer. He would also later tell me that when he saw me run back from the spillway's edge that he thought I didn't want to get involved. They had both prayed that God would hear their cries and send someone to help them in their desperate situation.

Shawn couldn’t bear the thought of how he would ever explain to Stephanie's mother that he simply couldn't hold onto her any longer and that she was swept away by the violence of the current and was lost under the ice.

We both pulled on Stephanie but to no avail. I then yelled at Shawn to take the end of my rope and throw it out into the current so it could circle her and then tie it under her arms. With his remaining strength he was able to do it, holding on to her with one hand and tying the rope with the other.

But we both pulled without success. The current wedged her body tightly under the ice. I yelled at Shawn that when I yelled "go" to reach over Stephanie as far as he could, grab her by the seat and pull her up against the current. I backed away from the water’s edge to the end of the rope and was able to get leverage when I found a little bump on the ice. I held the rope tightly, braced my feet against the bump and I yelled for him to “GO!” Shawn grabbed Stephanie as I pulled, and she finally slid out onto the ice past both of us. The force of the current had ripped off her boots and her long black stockings were hanging far below her feet when she was finally popped out onto the ice.

After a quick look to make sure Shawn was OK, I got Stephanie on the back of my machine and told her to hang on tight. We raced back up the trail, across the river, up a steep bank and skidded into the front yard where a young college student looked at us in surprise. I told him she had been in the river for some time and we needed help fast. He yelled at his sister as we took off Stephanie’s snowmobile suit. The young lady put her in a warm shower. Stephanie was going to be alright.

I don't know how Shawn and Stephanie are doing today, but I assume they are both fine. She will be about 28 and I will be 70. But, at times I still wonder why I felt so compelled to ride to the Red River of the North on a day when I knew the ride would be so difficult. And why had I returned for the rope? And why had I decided (after stopping half way) to continue? And why didn't I stop to rest under the bridge as I normally did? And why had I changed direction to go back to the spillway? And why was the rope was just long enough to reach a little bump in the ice where I was able to get the needed leverage to help pull Stephanie out of the icy water?

I believe God answered their prayers for help -- and sent an "Angel on Assignment."